


Cherchez la femme

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Ocean's Eleven (2001)
Genre: Backstory, Community: takethehouse, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-01
Updated: 2005-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny is looking for a diamond, and he keeps coming up with glass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherchez la femme

**Author's Note:**

> Written for passerida in the takethehouse ficathon. The request was: _Danny/Rusty, Rusty looks after Danny through a series of failed relationships, Tess included. Friends becoming lovers._ Recognizable dialogue lifted directly from the movies. Thanks to mousapelli for the beta and the help.

_Rusty_

The first time Rusty meets Danny, Danny is in the process of convincing Vice Principal Mahoney that he was in the library studying when someone took Mrs. Litsky's car to White Castle for lunch.

Rusty has been called to the office on a report that he'd left school grounds, and his entrance disrupts Mahoney's questioning and Danny's affable, bewildered answers.

"Mr. Ryan," she says, turning to him, "rumor has it you left school, even after all our discussions about how it's against the rules."

He shrugs one shoulder and gives her a bashful half-smile, knowing she has no evidence, or he'd be seeing Principal Daley instead. Rusty has nearly perfected his look of baffled innocence, and Mahoney is as susceptible to his blue eyes and blond hair as the overnight checkout girl down at Wawa who lets him have his hot dogs for free, though Mahoney is at least twice her age. In a few years, Saul will have to train him out of relying too much on his looks to get out of trouble, but right now it works, and Rusty, even at sixteen, is a pragmatist.

"You always tell us not to believe in gossip, Mrs. M."

"So I do." He can tell she's trying not to smile.

"And that a man shouldn't be convicted on the basis of his reputation," he continues, not daring to look at Danny, two years older and with a name for being shady. Mahoney opens her mouth and closes it again as he continues, "Danny was in the library with me." The Vice Principal is skeptical; she crosses her arms and looks at him over the top of her glasses. He wills himself to stay calm, just like the time last month he beat Johnny Moscone in a poker game and won fifty bucks. "He's tutoring me in," Rusty casts his mind around for what he knows of Danny Ocean, Southern Regional's most connected senior, "Italian." He knows he can charm Mrs. Rossetti into backing up his story, or at least not denying it when asked. Rumor has it Danny is her favorite student.

"Tutoring?" Mahoney asks.

"As a favor to the signora," Danny says, ducking his head and feigning modesty, and Rusty realizes he's finally found someone else who understands that little shiver of pleasure that runs down his spine when he gets away with something. "She's always been nice to me."

"Okay," she says. "I'm going to check with Mrs. Rossetti, but you can go."

Rusty rushes for the door, but Danny saunters and smiles. "Thank you, Mrs. Mahoney," he says as he leaves, showing off the cool that's made him a legend among the underclassmen.

In the third floor men's room, Rusty says, "You hotwired Mrs. Litsky's Mustang? You couldn't find someplace better to go than White Castle?"

"I don't know what you've heard," Danny replies, "but I was tutoring you in the library. Thanks, by the way." His eyes are sharp and his grin is wild at the edges. "So that was you on line at Castello Bianco." He pronounces it with an exaggerated Italian accent, and Rusty laughs.

"I don't know what you thought you saw," Rusty says, as deadpan as Danny's just been, "but I was in the library, being tutored."

They share a laugh, and then Danny leans in and says, "Mrs. Litsky loves White Castle."

All the pieces click into place. Rusty loves that feeling almost as much as he loves the thrill of a smooth pull, a successful theft.

It's the first time Danny and Rusty team up to get out of trouble, but nowhere near the last.

They spend that first summer working tourists on Long Beach Island, Danny helping Rusty smooth his pulls, Rusty helping Danny with the details. Sometimes they head to Atlantic City on the weekends, Rusty bluffing his way into the casinos with fake ID and a cocky smile, Danny acting way older than eighteen, drinking Johnny Walker Black and sleeping it off beneath the boardwalk.

Rusty likes girls, and he knows Danny likes girls, but he can't help feeling the sparks between them are the result of something more than simple friendship, or being on the job. One night, after they've scammed their way into and out of every club on LBI (there aren't that many), Rusty pushes Danny up against the side of the maroon Monte Carlo they've been riding around in all summer -- it smells of Aqua Velva (Danny) and Waterbabies (Rusty), White Castle and salt-sea air -- and kisses him, slipping his tongue into Danny's mouth the way he slips his hand into someone's pocket, swift and sleek and in control.

After a moment's hesitation, Danny kisses him back, fierce and hot, and Rusty gets that same tingle down his spine as he does when he's made a perfect pull. He'd never thought anything would match that feeling, but making out with Danny gives him the same rush, and he wants to never stop.

They don't talk about it in the morning, because they're not girls or anything, and two nights later Danny hooks up with Marisol Rodriguez in the parking lot behind the Schooners. Rusty goes home alone, ignoring the wrongness that makes his skin feel tight. When he jacks off, he doesn't even pretend he's not imagining Danny as he comes.

***

 _Bachelorette No. 1_

Shelley Pike is small and perky, with a perfect pink cupid's bow mouth and a cute little snub nose. Even her dark, curly hair bounces happily when she laughs. Danny brings her to Rusty's college graduation. Beforehand, he tells Rusty he wants to marry her and shows Rusty the ring. Rusty can't quite decide if it's appalling or romantic that the ring is stolen. (He settles on appallingly romantic.) After the commencement ceremony, they go out for drinks with Lindsay, the girl Rusty has dated on and off through college, because her father works for Marriott and the only thing Rusty has ever wanted to do, aside from be a thief, is own a hotel.

He and Danny talk about it sometimes, on long nights when they're waiting for the right job, the right moment, the right mark, Danny drinking Johnny Walker Black and Rusty eating whatever junk food is available -- Danny understands it helps him think, and always has a supply of snacks on hand. Danny will be head of marketing (he blew through college in three years, a state school on the state's dime, though they both know he'll never use his degree for anything legit), and also security, because he knows all the weaknesses of even so-called expert security systems, and they've both learned all the different ways to spend a week at a five-star hotel for free.

Danny heads to the payphones in back to make a call -- Saul has a job for them down in Atlantic City, a graduation present, he calls it -- and they're driving down early, as soon as Rusty packs his few belongings and says goodbye to Old Westbury, hopefully forever. Lindsay smiles sheepishly and heads to the ladies room for what seems like the fifteenth time, joking about her tiny bladder. Rusty no longer finds it charming, but he's good at faking it.

Shelley slides over in the booth and it's as if he can see it happening before it does. This almost psychic sense of things, of knowing exactly what someone will do in any given situation before they actually do it, or even know they want to do it, is his gift, what makes him so good at what he does. Most grifters have a touch of it, but it runs beneath Rusty's skin like an extra set of nerves, and it hasn't failed him yet.

He wonders briefly if he should stop her before she starts – if it never happens, he won't have to tell Danny, and Danny won't get that kicked puppy look he gets whenever one of the women he thinks he loves breaks his heart.

Danny is looking for a diamond, and he keeps coming up with glass. Rusty wonders when he'll realize he's had the real thing all along.

That thought, rising through the scotch, is what keeps him still when Shelley puts her hand on his thigh, too high up to be merely friendly. Her breath smells of orange juice -- sour, acidic, a ghost of health gone bad -- and Rusty leans back, away.

"I don't think--" he begins, but she cuts him off, small, cool fingers stroking his jaw as the hand on his thigh creeps toward his crotch.

"Don't think. That's what I always say." Her voice is low, breathy, a cute girl's attempt at seductive.

"Is it?" He circles her wrist with his fingers and removes it from his face. "It's not that I'm not interested," he starts, though of course, he's really not, "but Danny is--" Standing right in front of them, eyes dark and lips pursed.

"Everything all right?" Danny asks, his face perfectly serene by the time Shelley turns around.

"Fine," Rusty says before Shelley can launch into whichever explanation suits her (he has a feeling she's a blameshifter, and he's not taking the heat for this one). "Just. Fine." He bites the words off precisely. He slides out of his seat and rolls his shoulders, one and then the other, working out the stiffness from sitting for three hours in a wooden booth. "Tell Lindsay I'm waiting in the car." He meets Danny's gaze, pleading, and Danny nods almost imperceptibly, his mouth tightening just the slightest bit.

"See you in the morning," Danny says, and Rusty knows he's been forgiven for Shelley's sins.

The next morning, sitting in traffic on the Garden State Parkway, Danny is silent, which is strange, because Danny loves to talk. He has shadows under his eyes, his shirt is rumpled and his mouth is tight.

Usually, their silences are comfortable, but Rusty feels the weight of this one down to his bones. For the first time since they met, he wonders if he's misread Danny.

Finally, he says, "I didn't--"

And Danny says, "I know." He reaches out and for one breathless moment, Rusty thinks Danny's going to touch him, but he just turns on the radio. Danny smiles ruefully and shakes his head. "Women," he says with a soft laugh.

"Yeah." Rusty doesn't have to say anything else. Danny knows where his loyalties lie.

***

 _Bachelorette No. 2_

Kate Stanwyck is tall and blonde, the kind of blonde Raymond Chandler wrote about, the kind of blonde who can stop a man in his tracks at thirty paces with the flash of her ice blue eyes. Reuben introduces her to them, and after all the years they've been together, Rusty recognizes the signs. Danny is just a touch more charming than he has to be and his smile is slightly more seductive, as if he has secrets he's willing to share, but only with the right person.

Rusty no longer lets it bother him -- women come and go, but their partnership is forever -- but occasionally, when he's had a few drinks and he's just left the latest flavor of the month for his own bed, he remembers those drunken kisses in the summer heat, and the perfect way he and Danny fit together. He wonders if you can feel nostalgia for something you never had, before he realizes that's what nostalgia is, mostly, and he tries to put it out of his mind.

"She's good," he says to Danny late one night, as they sit in the hotel bar and drink single malt scotch. Danny raises an eyebrow and gives him a smug half-grin that says, _You have no idea_ , and Rusty's fingers tighten on the cheap glass tumbler he's holding, because he wants to wipe that look right off Danny's face. Or maybe because he'd like to be the one who puts it there in the first place. "You need to be careful."

"We're always careful. It's not like we haven't gone over the plan--"

Rusty shakes his head. "I don't mean us. And I don't mean the plan." He eats a handful of cashews and brushes his thumb across his chin, rubbing at non-existent salt. "Or maybe I do, but no. I mean you. And her." Danny's eyes are dark and angry, and Rusty wants to look away, but he doesn't, because this is Danny, and partners look out for each other. Danny looks away first, and Rusty's gut twists, a cold shiver of fear skitters down his spine.

"I--" Danny doesn't say he trusts her, because that would be a lie, and they both know it. "I'm not worried," he says. Rusty doesn't want to be placated, doesn't want to be conned, but he lets himself be, because it's what Danny obviously wants, and maybe he's wrong, maybe Danny knows what he's doing, has all the angles covered. It wouldn't be the first time Danny's played some deeper game without telling him, though he usually lets Rusty join in when Rusty figures it out.

Three nights later, Kate's disappeared with four million in diamonds, and Rusty and Danny are fleeing San Francisco in a 1979 Chevy Impala Rusty hotwired after the police arrived at the Fairmont looking for them.

Rusty is driving, not too fast, not too slow, signaling when he changes lanes. Just two guys out for a cross-country drive. Nothing to see here, officer.

The words hover on his lips but he refrains from saying them.

Danny stares out the window, jaw tight and hands restless, shaken out of his usual cool.

They are in a Denny's just outside Vegas when he says, "Go ahead and say it. I know you're dying to."

Rusty shakes his head, slowly chewing his French toast. He doesn't want to play this scene, and certainly not in Denny's, of all places, but after he swallows, he says, "You just -- you _knew_ she was playing you. You _knew_ it. Don't even try to tell me you didn't. You had to know it. But you let your dick do your thinking, and where did that get us? Huh?" He makes it about the job, because that's what Danny understands best, and that betrayal is the hardest to take.

Danny gives a soft laugh, ducking his head and looking away, then bringing his coffee cup to his lips. For a moment, for one bright, hopeful second, Rusty believes Danny's playing him, and that Danny's going to tell him he's got the diamonds in his pocket after all.

Instead, he laughs again and says, "You're right."

Rusty smiles in spite of himself. He can live with that.

***

 _Bachelorette No. 3_

Angie Acoff plays the cello in a string quartet on weeknights and bass in a punk band on the weekends. During the day, she cuts hair, and she makes and sells hand-beaded purses and jewelry on the side. Danny met her while they were casing an art gallery in Soho, and Rusty can't help but like her. She doesn't take herself, or anything else, too seriously, and she never asks questions. Her hours are so erratic, and her lifestyle so fluid, that she doesn't notice that for an insurance salesman (and Rusty wishes Danny would pick a better cover, but Danny likes the irony), Danny does an awful lot of work in the middle of the night. Rusty doesn't think she'd even care that they're thieves -- she has a cheerfully boho attitude toward everything else, and they've always been good at selling the Robin Hood shtick. Chicks usually dig that.

Danny laughs when he mentions it.

"You want me to tell Angie what we do." The way he says it, it's not a question, though Rusty can hear the disbelief in Danny's voice.

Rusty slouches down against the soft leather of Danny's couch and licks the salt from his French fries off his fingers before answering, "Not everything. But maybe you should test the waters. You know, so you have someone at home you can talk to about your day, waiting there with, I don't know, dinner or something." It sounds homespun, cozy, and Rusty thinks he may have oversold it, but Danny just shakes his head and laughs again.

"That's what I have you for." His hand is warm on Rusty's ankle, his smile intimate. Rusty takes a sip of beer to hide the way his breath hitches and his body responds. Danny may even be sincere when he says it, but Rusty also knows that it's not going anywhere, so he just finishes his Pilsner Urquell and calls it a night.

He spends most of that summer out at the Hamptons, mooching off various celebrities who all think they know him but can't quite remember from where, and are too embarrassed to admit it. He fits right in, blond and tan and skimming the surface of things. He has some of the best sex of his life that summer, with girls, with boys, with girls and boys, but it's still not as exciting as being on the job. As being with Danny. He speaks to Danny once a week, waiting for his next big idea, the one that's going to make them rich enough to retire. He tells himself he's networking, making useful contacts for future endeavors, for when he opens his hotel.

He's barely had time to shake the sand from his shoes when Danny's at the door, his tie undone and his shirt rumpled. Rusty raises an eyebrow but says nothing. He goes to the liquor cabinet and pours them each a glass of scotch.

Danny downs his and finishes a refill before he speaks. "I was going to tell Angie about us."

Rusty freezes for a moment, stunned, even though it had been his idea in the first place. He knows Danny hasn't had enough scotch not to notice, but they both pretend it didn't happen. "You were really going to tell her?"

Danny holds his index finger and his thumb about an inch apart. "A little bit. Not everything."

"So what happened?"

"She dumped me before I had the chance." He shakes his head in disbelief, a faint smile playing over his lips. "Said I was secretive. Withholding. That I didn't like to _share_." His voice and face are a study in baffled amusement. Rusty can't detect any pain, but then, he doesn't expect to. "She felt our relationship lacked mutual trust." There's a definite edge of sarcasm there, but no real anger or hurt.

"She told you all this tonight?"

"Yes, she did."

"And you were going to tell her..." Rusty trails off, shaking his head, laughing incredulously. He pours out another two glasses of scotch and drops down onto the couch next to Danny.

Danny raises his glass in a mock toast. "Don't think I don't appreciate the irony."

"Oh, I know you do." Rusty leans back and stretches his legs out in front of him. Danny's already kicked his shoes off and tossed his jacket onto the easy chair, settling in for the night.

Half a bottle of scotch later, Danny turns to him with this intent look in his eyes, the kind of look he usually reserves for large-carat diamonds and leggy blondes. Rusty knows it's going to happen, has seen it in his mind a hundred times over the years, and yet the soft press of Danny's lips against his still takes him by surprise.

Maybe that's what Rusty loves best about Danny, that he can still surprise him, even after so many years.

Rusty pulls back, trying to get a read on Danny's mood. Danny gives him the familiar wry smile, laughter in his eyes.

"Are you--" Rusty's attempt to give him one last out is cut off by another kiss.

Rusty feels more than hears the, "Yeah," Danny murmurs against his lips, deft hands sliding up beneath his t-shirt, warm against his skin.

Rusty is a detail man; he pays attention to everything, so he can anticipate anything. He lives through his skin -- sees through it, breathes through it. He knows by touch what other people need eyes to see or ears to hear, and Danny's touch burns this night into his skin. He'll remember every detail later, so he can relive it, in case it never happens again: the soft glide of expensive silk under his fingers as he unbuttons Danny's shirt, so smoothly Danny doesn't even know he's doing it until it's nearly done, and he laughs against Rusty's neck in appreciation. The rough scrape of stubble against the palm of his hand, his cheek, his lips as he takes his time mapping the face he knows as well as his own. The taste of expensive scotch on Danny's tongue, wet and hot in his mouth, as skilled in this silent language as it is with the spoken one. The way Danny's eyelashes cast filigreed shadows on his skin when his eyes flutter closed, and the way pleasure shivers through him when Danny nips at his ear. The protesting creak of the couch as Danny pushes him down against the cushions; the heat and weight of Danny's eager body covering his, and the stretch of supple olive skin and firm muscle beneath as Danny moves above him.

Rusty's hands are steady when he unzips Danny's fly, and he doesn't hesitate at all, curling impatient fingers around his cock, enjoying the quick hiss of Danny's breath in his ear, the low rumble of his voice as he strokes. He almost loses it when Danny returns the favor, warm, skilled fingers playing over achingly sensitive flesh.

"This all right?" Danny asks between kisses, each stroke of his hand sending a fresh wave of heat through Rusty's body.

"Oh, yeah," Rusty breathes.

They fall into an easy rhythm; working in tandem for so many years pays off, and they manage without falling off the couch, though Danny comes close once, and only Rusty's quick grab at his arms saves him.

"Take it easy," Rusty says. He can't stop smiling, because this is better than it ever was in his imagination, their bodies moving together with the same give-and-take, knowledge and instinct that makes them such a great team.

"Easy?"

"Like Sunday morning."

Danny gives another soft huff of laughter, his breath hot against Rusty's jaw. It changes into a groan as Rusty increases the pace of his strokes. Danny throws his head back, body tensing for one long moment, and comes with a low moan.

That sends Rusty over the edge, wild pleasure surging through him as he spills himself over Danny's hand.

They lie there for a while -- Rusty's not sure how long. Danny nuzzles his neck and Rusty is warm and content. He thinks this must be what it feels like to commit the perfect crime.

They don't put a label on whatever it is they're doing. Sex complicates everything and neither of them needs more complications. They roll with this new development the way they have with everything else that's come up in their relationship. They've been friends for more than half of Rusty's life now, and he's pretty certain nothing will ever change that.

In bed and out, they're a perfect team, and Rusty never feels the need for anything more.

Things are going so well, in fact, that Rusty completely misses the warning signs. He gets complacent when he should be most on his guard, lets himself forget that Danny is a con man first of all, and a con man is always on the job. A con man will always break your heart.

***

 _The First (and Second) Mrs. Daniel Ocean_

Tess is sharp and stylish, and Rusty can see why Danny likes her. She makes him raise his game, in more ways than one, and she's not easily taken in by Danny's charm. She reminds Rusty of Katharine Hepburn in _The Philadelphia Story_ \-- coltish and giddy and reserved at the same time. She has a discerning eye, a taste for the finer things in life and the self-confidence to expect to be gifted with them. Danny has the desire and ability to provide them on request.

She drinks Danny in like fine champagne; Rusty can tell he's too strong a vintage for her, but they're both too sickeningly in love to notice.

There have been so many other girls, though, that Rusty doesn't really worry. He can feel the tightness in his skin, the prickle underneath it, but he lets Danny soothe it away with easy words and well-paying jobs. Tess works at an art gallery in Soho, two doors down from the place they robbed when Danny was dating Angie, and Rusty is waiting for the right time to ask when they're going to take advantage of that fact.

So it's more than a little shocking when Danny arrives at his apartment one afternoon, practically vibrating with excitement, distinctive blue Tiffany bag in hand. Danny shows him the receipt for the ring, legally bought and paid for -- even the credit card is on the level, or at least as level as anything they ever do.

The ring is exquisite, of course -- square cut diamond in an elegant gold band, nothing too ostentatious. The sunlight sparking off its facets sets rainbows skittering across the stark white walls of the living room, and Rusty wants to laugh at his own stupidity.

He remembers the last time Danny showed him a ring like this, and knows that for all her faults (and Rusty has an itemized list), Tess is never going to grope him.

Rusty thinks it might almost be better if Danny makes some stupid remark -- _Back to going steady with your right hand,_ or something -- but they've never talked, they've never _needed_ to talk, and they're not going to start now. It's superfluous, anyway. Danny's already made the choice for both of them. He's always had a way of doing that.

What Danny says is, "You're the best man," and Rusty smiles, swallowing the scathing remarks that flood his mouth.

"Of course I am," he says, forcing out the right words. "You're sure about this?"

Danny's smile is as bright as the diamond. "Yeah," he says, and again, laughing now, "yeah."

Rusty wants to be happy for him, and he knows if he fakes it long enough, eventually it will become true, so he laughs along with Danny, and pours them both some celebratory scotch.

Danny swirls the liquor in his glass, stares down into it like it's telling him tonight's winning lottery numbers. "It's time," he says. "Get married, have someone to talk about the day with over dinner, maybe watch some television, go to bed early."

"Bullshit." Rusty can't help laughing, even as the small kernel of truth beneath this banal speech is cutting his heart to shreds.

"Too much? It's too much, isn't it."

"Little bit."

As Danny's leaving, he puts a hand on Rusty's shoulder and squeezes. "Can't do it without you, man. You know that."

And the thing is, Rusty _does_.

*

Rusty arranges the bachelor party, and at the end of the night, when they stagger home to his apartment, he pours Danny onto the couch and stumbles into the bedroom alone.

He wakes with a blinding headache and Danny's warm body curled up around him.

"Hey."

He squints up into Danny's smiling face. "Hey."

Danny leans in and gives him a close-mouthed kiss, lips warm and soft. It's the last goodbye, to this part of their partnership, anyway, and Rusty knows it.

He rolls out of bed and stretches. "So you're going straight?"

Danny's lips twitch but he shakes his head. "Now what makes you think I'd do a crazy thing like that?"

Rusty shrugs. "Tess isn't--" _Like us._

"Tess isn't going to change anything," Danny says, stretching languidly, dark against the crisp, white, cotton sheets. But of course it's a lie; she already has.

*

The wedding is everything Rusty expected, held at Tess's family's summer home on Martha's Vineyard. Tess is incandescent in elegant white silk and though it would kill Rusty to admit it, even to himself, Danny looks happier than Rusty's ever seen him.

Rusty smiles and laughs and dances with the bride, but he can't help feeling the whole thing is a like a con spun out of control, and those never end well. He knows Tess doesn't love Danny for what -- who -- he is. Tess doesn't even _know_ who he is. She loves the idea of him, the face he presents to the world. And Danny can't see it -- he's in so deep he doesn't _want_ to see it, and when the truth comes out, it's going to break them both. Rusty can't quite decide if he wants to be there to see it.

*

Rusty finds it grows easier with time, especially since everything else stays the same -- Danny still has the ideas and Rusty still makes them happen, and they're doing pretty well for themselves. Danny occasionally slips him information that Tess lets drop, but they're careful. One of the first rules in their line of business, and those are the only rules Danny and Rusty tend to follow, is, _don't shit where you eat._

Still, when she moves from the gallery to a curating job at the Museum of Modern Art, she knows secrets about security codes and shipments of valuable artwork, secrets she shares with her husband. Secrets that are all too tempting after a series of penny ante jobs convincing Division II athletes to shave points and Golden Gloves participants to throw fights.

Just before she starts the new job, a collection of small porcelain figurines disappears from the gallery. The owners call the police, but when the figurines -- minus the two most valuable -- reappear three days later, and they put it down to carelessness. By that time, though, all employees, current and former, have been thoroughly questioned by the police.

Rusty keeps the two figurines in a safe deposit box in Manasquan, just one small part of his pension plan.

He isn't present for the fight, but he sees the aftermath the next morning when Danny meets him by the lake in Central Park. Danny is pale beneath his tan, except for shadows like bruises underlining his eyes.

"I think you should lie low for a while," he says without preamble. "Go to LA, maybe, or Vegas. Or, hey, Mardi Gras is coming up soon. You could make a bundle in New Orleans, and have beignets for breakfast every day."

Rusty's hand, the one that's bringing his breakfast burrito to his mouth, doesn't pause at this odd statement, but his brain seems to stutter for a second before starting again, as if he can't believe what he's hearing.

"Beignets." Damn Danny for knowing his weaknesses.

"Yeah."

"Look," he says after a long silence filled only with the sound of his own chewing and Danny's soft breathing. "You have a choice. You stay with Tess, get a nine to five job, and become a solid citizen. I go to New Orleans, and forget we ever knew each other." He ignores the soulful, pleading look Danny gives him, even though it may be as much as seventy-five percent sincere. "He's a stand up guy, that Danny Ocean -- sells more cars than anyone else on the lot." Danny opens his mouth to protest, but Rusty doesn't stop talking. "Or, you walk away now, before Tess gets hurt more than she already is, and you stay Danny Ocean, the guy who masterminded the Harry Winston job, the best in the business. But you've got to choose, Danny. You can't be both. You never could." He punctuates it with the satisfying crunch of tortilla and ground beef, feeling lighter for finally having said it. He doesn't think of beignets at all, the warm, sweet dough and powdered sugar melting in his mouth, of the taste of chicory on Danny's tongue.

Danny ducks his head, lips twisting in distaste. "First of all, a car salesman? On the off-chance I ever did go legit, it would not be as a car salesman."

"You'd be good at it."

"Of course I would. But it's no challenge. Not to mention tacky. 'Yes, ma'am, you really do want the deluxe model, with the power windows and the leather seats.'" He snorts and shakes his head. "This isn't permanent. Just until Tess calms down. The cops visited her at work, for Christ's sake. She's shaken up."

"I get that, Danny," Rusty says patiently. He doesn't add, _probably better than you do,_ remembering the first time the cops questioned him. He was ten, and they were looking for his mother and asking about the new patio furniture that had mysteriously appeared in their backyard. "But it's always gonna be this way. You can't expect to summer in Newport--"

"The Vineyard."

"Summer on Martha's Vineyard and then steal from your wife's employers when you come back. Unless she's in on it, too." Danny shakes his head again, but Rusty presses on. "If you want my professional opinion--"

"I don't."

"She doesn't have it in her. She probably feels guilty when she pockets a pen at work, let alone a three million dollar painting."

"I--"

"You know I'm right." Danny won't look at him, won't acknowledge the truth. "Fine. Be that way. But if I walk away now, without you, that's it. I'm not coming back." It hurts him to say it, and he'd like to think it hurts Danny to hear, but he can't get a good read on him right now. They're both too wound up, too much emotion too close to the surface.

"Yeah, you are."

"I'm not joking."

Danny shoves his hands into the deep pockets of his black wool overcoat, shoulders shrugging at the movement. He stares out at the water. Rusty wonders if Danny's heard a word he's said. Finally, Danny says, "Go to Vegas. Get in touch with Reuben. When things have calmed down here, I'll find you."

Rusty wants to yell at him, shake some sense into him. Instead, he nods once and tosses the greasy wrapper from his breakfast into the nearest trashcan. "Goodbye, Danny."

He walks away, and he refuses to admit he's upset when Danny doesn't follow.

*

Rusty isn't actually surprised to hear that three weeks later, the gallery where Tess used to work has been robbed. Danny doesn't like to lose, and he's never known when to walk away from a lost cause. That was always Rusty's part of the job, to know when things were salvageable and when it was better to cut and run.

He _is_ surprised to hear Danny's voice on the phone at three am a few nights later. He's in Palm Springs, golfing with Saul, planning to steal a couple million in jewelry. Not that he's competitive.

"She's gone."

Rusty says nothing, just pinches the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stop the headache before it starts.

"I don't-- I can't-- I asked if her career was more important than our marriage, and she said maybe if our marriage hadn't been based on a lie in the first place..." he trails off, slurring a little, and Rusty forces himself not to respond. He doesn't want to be Danny's drunk dialing buddy, and he doesn't really want to say, "I told you so." Okay, maybe he does a little. But he won't. He waits, and hopes Danny says the magic words. Instead, Danny says, "There's a gala at the Met, next week. We were supposed to go together. I still have the invitation--"

"What?"

"She's going to wear this gown -- it's the most amazing thing."

Rusty takes the phone away from his ear and stares at it for a moment, as if the bland, beige plastic handset can tell him something about Danny's expression. "What is _wrong_ with you?" he asks before he can stop himself.

There's a long pause; he can hear Danny's breathing and the sound of early morning silence in the background. "My wife just left me. What do you think is wrong?"

It's the truth, but it pings Rusty the wrong way. Danny never tells the truth unless there's something to be gained by it. "I can be there late this afternoon," he says.

"No."

"No?" Rusty pushes himself up into a sitting position, runs a hand through his hair, not sure he's heard correctly. "What do you mean, 'no?' You're planning something, and you know you need me."

"No. I've got Dave Rebowski and Carmine DeLuca--"

"They're not reliable--"

"Dave's sister is in with the caterer."

"You're going to rob the Met." Rusty lets out a long, low breath, because that is the big time. "What is it?"

"Incan matrimonial head masks."

"Incan matrimonial head masks."

"Yeah."

"You don't think she'll know it's you?"

"I want her to know." Danny's voice is sharp.

"I'll be on the first flight out of John Wayne."

"You can't be there. She knows you, suspects you."

"You're not making any sense. I thought you wanted her to know it's you."

"I want her to know it's me. But I told her you were gone. If she sees you--"

"She'll never see me."

"Rusty --"

"She'll never see me." His voice is loud in the silence of the hotel room.

"Rusty, just -- No. I said no. I don't want you involved."

The line goes dead before Rusty can respond. He stares at the blood-red numbers on the hotel alarm clock, trying to make sense of the conversation.

He thinks about the options. He could go back to New York anyway, and attempt to keep Danny out of trouble. Because this has trouble written all over it in neon green capital letters. But Danny doesn't want him there, so fuck that. If he thinks he can replace Rusty Ryan with a couple of small-time hustlers like Rebowski and DeLuca, he deserves to have the thing blow up in his face.

Rusty throws himself under the covers, but even after he's convinced himself he's made the right decision, he can't get back to sleep. A heavy feeling settles in his chest and stomach. It almost feels like mourning.

*

Rusty hears about it later. He runs into Rose Rebowski in Atlanta, takes her out for drinks, pumps her for the whole story. She'd worked the job as part of the catering crew.

"Danny stumbles in, wearing his tux, drunk off his ass." Rusty knows he wasn't really drunk, but he doesn't correct her. If she doesn't know that much, it's not his job to educate her. He eats another handful of over-salted beer nuts. "He starts begging his wife to take him back. It was a big scene. The more he begged, the more embarrassed she got, and man, I felt for both of them. She was so angry. Her eyes got real narrow and her lips were all pinched, like she'd just sucked a lemon." Rusty nods; he's all too familiar with that expression. Rose takes a sip of her drink. "So she calls security and has him thrown out. Made Page Six in the _Post_ and everything." Rusty nods again; he'd seen it.

"Three hours later, they get pulled over on the Jersey Turnpike because of a busted taillight, and the cops find the merchandise in the back of the van." She shakes her head. "Dave never was the brightest bulb in the lamp, you know? And he couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life. Him and Carmine both rolled over, gave Danny up like a seventeen-year-old virgin on prom night." Rose finishes her drink and Rusty signals the bartender for another round. He holds the cool glass up to his temple, trying to soothe the throbbing pain in his head.

Even when they were just starting out, Danny hadn't been that sloppy. Just another mess to lay at Tess's feet.

At first, Rusty is angry with all three of them -- Tess for screwing over Danny, Danny for screwing him, and himself for not being there when Danny needed him.

Danny is one of the few people who can get under Rusty's skin, so it takes him a while to get over it. When he does, he sends Danny a half-eaten box of Oreos. He doesn't include a note, but he figures Danny will understand.

When he gets on the plane to Rome, he feels lighter, as if he's leaving his old life behind.

*

After Europe, LA is too bright, too shiny, too _new_. Nagel puts him in touch with a few people, but none of them are professionals, and Rusty has no patience for dilettantes. They're the ones who end up in jail, and they have no qualms about taking everyone else along with them.

He does a little work on the west coast -- down to Mexico and up to Vancouver -- to make enough for walking around money. He scams the Park Hyatt Los Angeles into a few months' free living in the Royal suite. He settles into a routine after a few weeks, parting up-and-coming actors from their extra cash. He's bored out of his mind and biding his time until the right job comes along. At least, that's what he tells himself. But though he was always susceptible to Danny's charm, he's never been good at lying to himself, and that hasn't changed.

Deep down, he knows exactly what he's waiting for.

*

His skin prickles with awareness as he walks into the back room at the club to face those dumb kids again, and when Danny looks at him across that green felt table, adrenaline buzzes through his veins, better even than sugar, caffeine or alcohol. Working together again, even casually, just to take those clueless kids for their money, makes him giddy.

"You get the cookies I sent?" he asks when they're in the car, riding with the top down like they're eighteen again and on top of the world.

"Why do you think I came to see you first?" Danny answers, and Rusty knows his message was received and understood. The tension seeps out of his shoulders. As Danny tells him about the job, he can feel bits and pieces of the plan click into place -- people, materials, combinations of cons -- everything they'll need to make Danny's crazy vision a reality.

When Danny gives him the obviously rehearsed and probably only half-sincere speech, he knows something else is going on -- with Danny, there's almost always something else going on -- but he doesn't want to think too much about it. Especially not when they arrive at the hotel, and Danny's pushing him up against the door, mouth fierce and hungry over his, hands warm and clever as they strip off his tie and jacket and unbutton his shirt.

They pause long enough for him to shove Danny's jacket off his shoulders and yank the silky black turtleneck over his head, and then they're skin to skin. Rusty can't remember the last time he felt this alive, heat firing in his veins, and every inch of his skin sensitive and aching for Danny's touch. He undoes Danny's trousers, and when he catches the glint of a gold ring on Danny's left hand as Danny unzips him, he pretends not to notice. Danny's always had trouble letting things go, and Rusty has more important things to worry about right now, like the soft growls Danny's making as Rusty rubs against him, and the heat of Danny's hand on his cock.

They don't make it into the bedroom, shoving eagerly until pants and boxers both are down far enough to let them thrust against each other. They move slowly at first, as if remembering the steps to a long-forgotten dance, but soon Rusty's head is tipped back against the wall and Danny's teeth are sharp on his jaw and throat. They surge together, and Rusty feels that high, sharp tension build, thinks it might just kill him this time, before it breaks and pleasure pulses through him and out. Danny shudders against him and comes with a groan. They slide slowly to the floor, legs too rubbery to hold them upright any longer.

"Miss me?" he asks, lips pressed to Danny's ear, enjoying the way it makes him shiver.

"Little bit," Danny answers before moving in for another long, slow kiss.

*

They fall easily into their old rhythm, and everything is going well. Too well, probably. Rusty should have expected it, but he tries to ignore the ring on Danny's finger, and what it means, until he can't ignore it any longer.

"This is the best part of my day," Linus says, sounding like a starstruck teenager, and Rusty can't blame him. Tess looks great, thinner, and more guarded, but still sleek and beautiful.

The shrimp cocktail Rusty's eating loses its taste.

"I haven't even caught her name, actually," Linus says.

"Tess. Her name is Tess." He tries not to sound angry, but Linus picks up on the fact that there's something wrong.

Rusty confronts Danny immediately, because this isn't just about sex. Danny's playing some ridiculous game and there are nine other people and one hundred and sixty million dollars involved.

When they get back to the warehouse, he says to Danny, "We need to talk now. _Now_." They move to the doorway, and Rusty tries to keep his voice low, but his anger is threatening to boil over. "Tell me this is not about her, or I am walking. I am walking off this job right now."

"Who?"

"Tess. Terry Benedict. Tell me this is not about screwing the guy who's screwing your wife."

"Ex-wife. It's not about that." He pauses, and Rusty feels it coming. "Not entirely about that."

"Okay, here's the problem. Now we're stealing two things. And when push comes to shove, and you can't have both, which are you gonna choose, huh? And remember: Tess does not split eleven ways!"

"If everything goes according to plan, I won't have to."

There's no time for explanations, and Rusty doesn't expect them, anyway. So he's a little surprised when Danny pulls him aside and says, "Benedict's a bad guy. You and I both know that, and so should she."

"Just because you can't--"

"She deserves better than him, Rus, you know that."

And the thing is, Rusty does.

*

This time, Danny goes to jail to prove a point, and to square things with Tess, and she seems to understand that.

She and Rusty have only ever been cordial to each other, so it's a little weird that he's driving her back to New York after Danny gets pinched. But she's got nowhere else to go, and it's the least Rusty can do. He doesn't expect to actually like her. He knows she's sharp and witty and doesn't tolerate bullshit, but he doesn't see the giddy, playful side of her that must have captivated Danny until they are stuck in Bumfuck, Missouri because flash flooding has washed out a bridge. They check into a Motel 6, raid the mini bar and check out basic cable.

"I can't believe the suite at the Bellagio didn't have a mini bar," he tells her. "When I own my hotel, the rooms will contain the King of Mini Bars, with top shelf liquor and a good selection of snacks, both salty and sugary." She seems to find this hilarious, but then again, they've had several rounds of gin and tonic by that point.

After a couple of hours, and with a wide smile that makes her look like a wild pixie, she says, "Let's go for a swim."

He peers through the blinds -- the sky is leaden, but the rain has stopped and no one else is in sight. He tears out of the room, dropping his clothes behind him, and executes a perfect cannonball into the deep end of the pool, yelling, "Last one in is a rotten egg!" as if he's sixteen again.

They horse around a bit in the water, splashing and laughing, until a clap of thunder startles her and she jumps into his arms. She's shivering and soft against him, hair plastered to her forehead and eyes wide and searching. For one breathless second he's tempted to lean in, to kiss her and discover exactly what's held Danny in thrall for the past few years.

But he doesn't. Instead he says, "If you hurt Danny again, I will make you so miserable, you'll wish you'd never been born."

She nods, pulling away, and climbing out of the pool. There's another roll of thunder, followed by lightning this time, so he follows her back to the room.

They don't ever speak of it again, but he knows she knows he means it. It goes a long way toward easing his discomfort with the whole situation, because Rusty still thinks, deep down, that Danny's making a huge mistake.

Because now Tess thinks she knows Danny, and she loves him anyway, but neither of them see that she loves him for who she wants him to be, not who he actually _is_. And Rusty's not sure Danny can ever be anything but a thief.

***

 _Rusty_

Rusty's not sure about himself, either, but with the almost thirteen million he takes away from the Benedict job, he finagles a deal for the old Standard Hotel and tries to live out his dream. It's not the same without Danny there, and it's nothing like he imagined, with long days and long nights, staff to manage, local government that makes him jump through hoops, and guests. Guests are both the lifeblood and the bane of any hotel owner's existence, he's come to believe, and celebrity guests are the worst.

It's almost a relief when he gets the call from Benedict, though he'd have preferred not to have his car blown up.

Being back together with Danny, trying to maneuver out of a tight spot -- they're at their best like this, though they're a little out of practice and trying to force it. They have more at stake now than they ever had before.

"I go into a place and I see the angles. I always have. It's who I am. I _love_ it," Danny says, sounding wistful, and Rusty understands. Rusty Ryan _is_ a thief and a con man, and everything else is a cover, an act. He's not sure he could do what Danny's done, though he doesn't think Isabel would have given him the chance. Part of him doesn't quite believe Danny's done it, either. Time will tell.

The plot Danny comes up with is even more elaborate than usual, and Rusty still isn't sure how it's all going to play out, but the adrenaline is addictive, and he doesn't think he can go back to the hotel business with it singing in his veins, looking for the next big score.

It's not about money anymore. It never really was, with them, but even less so now. It's about that shiver of pleasure, that down low tingle when he knows he's the smartest guy in the room, that he can work angles even other pros can't see.

And this time, he's the one with the secret, the one with something a little extra going on, that Danny doesn't know about. It might be wrong -- not that he's ever much cared about conventional notions of right and wrong, so if it is, he doesn't want to be right -- but he kind of enjoys Danny's pique when he finds out. Turnabout is fair play, after all.

The night before, loud knocking wakes him, and he can't decide if he wants it to be Danny or Isabel. He opens the door to see Danny standing there, looking a little twitchy despite how well things have turned out.

"What are you doing?"

Rusty blinks. "Sleeping. Why are you dressed?"

"It's five-thirty, day of. Gotta go, let's go."

Rusty looks at his watch. "It's eleven-thirty. The night before."

They both realize it at the same moment.

"Oh."

"Oh! Oh, he's mean. He's just mean-spirited." Toulour is a real bastard. Rusty can't help but be a little amused, though, and he wishes they could return the favor. "All right, how many espressos have you had?"

"Five."

It's all too easy to invite him in, to order room service, drink red wine and watch reruns from their teenage years on Italian TV. Danny leans in close, and it would be so easy -- _so easy_ \-- to meet him halfway, to kiss and touch and fuck. To blame it on the wine and the adrenaline.

 _After all, it's nothing they haven't done the night before a job a hundred times._

 _Instead, Rusty talks about Isabel, about screwing up his chances with her. Part of him feels stupid for passing up what he really wants, freely given, and part of him feels like it's a shitty thing for them to do to Tess. But mostly, he wants Danny to _know_ , to _understand_ what it's felt like all these years._

"That guy doing Potsie is incredible," Danny says when he's done rambling. Rusty wants to kick himself for letting the moment pass, but he knows Danny got the message.

*

Rusty gives Linus credit for attempting the Looky Lou. He gives him even more credit for convincing Tess to do it, when everyone, herself included, can see she hasn't got a shifty bone in her body. She and Danny head back to East Haven, and Rusty isn't sure when he'll see Danny next. Tess isn't cut out for their life, and Danny's still trying to please her. She wants the fairy tale of believing he changed for her, and she'll never see how it's eating away at him. Danny has never wanted to be the man Tess imagines him to be. He just wanted Tess to believe he was. It's a deeper, more complicated con, and like any con, it has to end with somebody losing something.

Rusty will be around to pick up the pieces, though he's fairly certain that this time, it won't be Tess who does the leaving.

In the meantime, there is Isabel, who, it turns out, was simply born to steal. Rusty begins to think life without Danny may not be completely devoid of excitement.

Which is why it's a bit of a surprise six months later to come back to the flat they share in Rome and discover her gone. There's no note, just a small black figurine sitting in the pantry next to his stash of corn chips. Rusty swears he can hear the lingering echoes of mocking laughter, but since he's alone in the house, he can't confirm it either way.

He heads back to the States, checks up on the hotel. Reuben bailed him out, brought in a team of experts, and it's now the hottest hotel in LA. Rusty still can't quite believe he's a taxpaying citizen; he finds it amusing whenever he remembers, and resists the urge to call Danny and commiserate.

It's no surprise at all that the next time he stops by the hotel, the general manager stops him and tells him there's a special guest in the Imperial suite who's been asking after him.

His heart kicks against his ribs and heat surges in his veins as he rides the elevator to the penthouse. The doors whoosh open silently, and he steps off into the crisp blue and white foyer, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting.

He knocks and calls out, "Michel says you were asking for me?"

The door swings open to reveal Danny in a white cotton shirt, collar open, sleeves rolled up, faded blue jeans and bare feet. Rusty glances at his hand and his chest tightens at what he sees, or, rather, what he doesn't see. Danny's left ring finger is bare, a pale stripe of skin where his ring used to be.

Rusty can't remember the last time he saw Danny in a pair of jeans. "Different look for you," he says, showing no sign that his mouth has gone dry and what he really wants to do is slam Danny up against the wall and fuck him.

Danny executes a little spin move and says, "You don't like it?"

"Oh, I like it. It's just different."

"I'm on vacation." Danny's voice is like a shot of bourbon, low and rough, burning a path down Rusty's body, making his skin hum and his cock hard.

"I definitely approve."

"I aim to please."

"I know you do." Rusty lets the door swing shut behind him, turning the lock and setting the deadbolt without even looking. "And Mrs. Ocean?"

"The former Mrs. Ocean has her very own art studio in East Haven. Her work is quite good. May be worth stealing some day."

Rusty can't keep his lips from curling into a grin. A lazy smile winds its way across Danny's face in response, but his eyes are dark, intent. Hungry.

"I'll have to look into it," Rusty says. "We're always looking for artwork for the hotel."

"I understand Isabel has recently become a baroness."

Rusty nods, still mesmerized by Danny's smile. "I sent a gift."

Danny moves further into the room, where the contents of the mini bar are lined up on the coffee table.

"Expecting company?"

Danny waves at the snacks. "I was hoping you would join me for dinner. I hear," he picks up a bag of chips, "two thousand five is an excellent year for Fritos."

"Don't mind if I do," Rusty says, plucking the bag from Danny's hand and tossing it over his shoulder. He grabs hold of Danny's shirt and pulls him close. "You sure about this?"

"Yeah--"

He swallows the rest of Danny's reply with a kiss. He closes his eyes so he can concentrate on the feel of Danny's lips, warm and soft, the scrape of stubble against his skin. He shoves Danny down onto the coffee table, scattering snacks and beverages everywhere, and climbs into his lap.

"We seem to be on the way to trashing this hotel room," Danny murmurs when he breaks the kiss. "You think it's okay?"

Rusty presses another kiss to his cheek, nips at the skin beneath his ear. "Yeah," he says with a soft laugh, grinding down, winning a low moan from Danny. "I know the owner."

Danny smiles again, gently brushing the backs of his fingers across Rusty's face. "So do I."

end

~*~


End file.
